


somebody to know

by arabmorgan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Biting, Developing Relationship, F/M, Light Angst, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22651609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabmorgan/pseuds/arabmorgan
Summary: A classic trope would dictate the superhero falling for the supervillain, but Nightingale takes a wrong turn somewhere along the way and gets tangled up with the supervillain's lackey instead.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 37
Kudos: 154





	1. the way you numbed all the pain

**Author's Note:**

> As I said to my friend, I wrote this because I really wanted them to bang, so please...do not enter with great plot expectations lol.

Perched precariously upon a beam in a rather remote barn, Sansa thought not for the first time and with some dark amusement that her life had truly turned into a movie.

“How long is this going to take?” Joffrey Baratheon – or, as he preferred to be professionally known, Hearteater – whined. “I’m starving. If your dad doesn’t respond to our ransom demand in, say, another ten minutes, I’m sending him a finger.”

A terrified squeak left the tied-up hostage’s mouth, and yet his response was shockingly haughty. “My family will never negotiate with kidnapping scum like you,” the young man scoffed. “The police will find us soon enough.”

“But how many fingers will you have left by then, boy?” came a low, rasping voice from the corner. He was tucked away where Sansa couldn’t see him, but she knew well enough who had just spoken. She had never heard anyone else sound quite like The Hound, his grating growls making him sound like a failed rocker who had screamed too much in his youth.

Trystane Martell lowered his head, his breath hitching, and chose not to respond. _Smart_ , Sansa thought, even as she noted Hearteater’s casual sprawl across a very out-of-place couch he had clearly brought in just for the kidnapping. The Gallows was leaning against the stacked hay bales off to the left, his black executioner’s mask plainly visible from above.

And that left only The Shadow unaccounted for, which Sansa didn’t like at all, considering the guy’s propensity for popping up rudely in unexpected places.

Nevertheless, she wasn’t about to wait any longer. No fingers were going to be removed on Nightingale’s watch, not unless they belonged to Hearteater or his cronies.

Leaping off the beam, her wings spread wide with an unfortunate flash that immediately had Hearteater scrambling to his feet. Twirling ballet-like in the air, Sansa slammed the side of her leg into his head, knocking the decidedly unfrightening supervillain out of the fight in seconds. Landing beside a wide-eyed Trystane, her wings vanished as she threw up walls of pure energy around them, silver-grey and buzzing dangerously.

“Relax,” she murmured, grabbing a knife from her thigh holster and beginning to saw at the ropes binding his legs. A grunt of rage sounded behind her, and she flinched minutely at the fists beginning to smash at her walls with unnatural strength. A tactical mistake had been made – The Hound rarely got involved in the villainy unless Hearteater was in danger, and she supposed having Hearteater inside her barriers and The Hound outside certainly constituted danger.

“Nightingale!” Trystane Martell’s shocked cry made her pull back, just in time to realise that her feet were sinking into the earth. With a muttered curse, she tossed an energy projectile at The Gallows, distracting him just long enough to struggle her way free. Slashing the last fraying thread about Trystane’s ankles, she hauled the man to his feet and pushed him towards the barn doors.

“Run,” she snapped, “and try not to fall.” Looking down at his still-bound hands, he swallowed and ran. Sansa immediately shot another bright blast of energy at The Gallows before he could do anything to trip up the escaping hostage, and let the wall between her and The Hound vanish. The big man stumbled forward into the dirt, his swearing muffled by the ugly dog head mask he wore, and Sansa allowed herself the faintest hint of a grin before she too spun and ran.

“Get that bitch!” she heard Hearteater shriek, evidently awake again, but she was already in the air, out of reach of The Hound’s ridiculous height and The Gallows’ hungry earth.

That was when The Shadow dived out of the eaves and slammed bodily into her. Sansa shrieked, one of her wings snapping against the rafters and disappearing, sending the two of them spiraling down into the dirt. She lay gasping and winded, The Shadow’s heavy bulk laying atop her, before the plump man grabbed her by the neck and hauled her upright. With a snarl, she slammed her palm into his nose and felt it break right through the mask.

Naturally, he dropped her, howling, and naturally, she ran, throwing up barriers behind her as Hearteater screeched and flung daggers at her back. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, just in case The Gallows tried to snare her once more, but he was bent over The Shadow. Hearteater, a fantastic bloom of purple spreading across one pale cheek, was still hurling various pointy weapons and a tirade of verbal abuse at her, but The Hound only stood motionless, watching, and she shivered at the calm in his cold glare.

That night, multiple news outlets reported that the vigilante Nightingale had successfully and single-handedly rescued the youngest son of Dornish prince Doran Martell from the clutches of the infamous supervillain Hearteater. The Dornish royal family, currently in Kings Landing for an extended holiday, would be continuing on their trip as planned despite the threatening ransom note received from the former Baratheon heir.

“We would like to thank Nightingale for my son’s safe return. She will always have a friend in Dorne,” the prince said solemnly in a brief statement given on the royal family’s way to dinner.

Trystane Martell, on the other hand, seemed more smitten with his mysterious rescuer than anything. “She’s not called Nightingale for nothing,” he said, his expression just as serious as his father’s as he looked into the waiting cameras. “The kidnappers were going to cut off my fingers one by one, but when she flew to my side, it was as if the angels themselves had descended on me and told me to run. I have never heard a more welcome voice in my life.”

Sansa Stark shut the TV off with a click and snorted out into the darkness of her living room. A prince giving an interview about her – surely nothing else screamed that her life had turned into a movie more than that. The next step would be for her identity to be exposed, whereupon Trystane would propose to her and she would move to Dorne to have his lovely curly-haired Dornish children, all the while conveniently forgetting that half her family was dead and the smarmy blonde asshole who had killed them was still running amok in the city.

If only she could forget. A girl could certainly dream.

She shifted, antsy, and peered out into the cheery winking brightness of the city’s lights. It was almost a year to the day since that disastrous dinner party that had cost her everything she loved, a distinct and unwelcome awareness that sat constantly at the back of her mind. She very desperately wanted – no, needed – a drink.

 _Today was quiet. Been thinking about you guys. Give everyone my love and a hundred kisses._ Sansa sent off the text and set her phone down, glancing back outside.

She’d go somewhere new today – the Kingsguard, perhaps. Somewhere the men didn’t know her, and she didn’t know them. She wanted someone who wouldn’t remind her of the past.

The Kingsguard was something of a gentleman’s club, rather more posh than Sansa was accustomed to frequenting. She didn’t tend to like rich men – there was just as much likelihood of them being nasty as the men she met in Flea Bottom, and those with mean streaks tended towards cruelty as well – but tonight, she felt like she’d welcome nasty. She’d welcome almost anything really.

Sipping on her drink as she sat at the bar, she eyed her company idly, gaze flicking past the boring blend of suits, ties and well-coiffed hair. She was careful not to make eye contact, her expression one of deliberate disinterest. There was a man in the corner, she realised eventually, large and half in shadow, his long legs clad in jeans, of all things. Jeans in the Kingsguard! The corner of her mouth curled up in amusement, taking in the muscles that appeared to be trying to shove their way out against the sleeves of his shirt and the pleasingly broad bulk of his shoulders.

Drifting over to him in a motion that could almost have been accidental, Sansa set her glass down and smiled. “See something you like?” she purred, although as far as she knew, she had been the one doing all the looking. She tilted her head slightly, angling for the light to make her eyes shine that exact shade of irresistible blue, the same as her mother’s.

The man shifted, seeming to notice her for the first time. “You’re the one who approached me,” he rumbled, and something about his voice made Sansa quiver. It felt like thunder rushing through her, a danger that she recognized distantly and yet chose to embrace. He turned, his features catching the light, revealing a hooked nose, dark hair and – her breath caught – a dark, twisted mass of charred flesh across the left side of his face, trailing across his scalp and down beneath the collar of his simple black shirt.

She didn’t know what expression had crossed her face at the unexpected sight, but the man snorted darkly and looked away once more. He didn’t seem angry, just tired, and certainly not in the mood to entertain little girls wanting to play with monsters.

Sansa, of course, was no little girl. Maybe she had been a silly, brainless twit at twenty, or even the magical twenty-one, but there had been very little chance of seeing her brother’s head half-severed from his neck without growing up right quick after that.

His forearm, thickly muscled and covered with coarse hair, rested against the bar, and she laid her hand on it, stroking at the short black strands with vague fascination. “If you’re free tonight, I’ve been feeling a little lonely,” she murmured, lashes sweeping downwards demurely.

He drew his arm away and she glanced up, mouth already halfway into a moue of disappointment, but he was only staring at her with a frown on his face, like he didn’t quite know what to make of her. “Lonely for a man like me?” he said flatly, and his voice seemed to almost scratch its way out of his throat.

Sansa let out a breath, allowing the tiniest hint of a smile to peek through, the glow of genuine relief that he hadn’t said no. “Exactly like you,” she replied. His eyes were very grey, like the veined streaks of a dark marble tabletop, and sharply suspicious, enough to make her chuckle. His frown deepened at that, but he finished off the rest of his drink in one gulp and let her lead him out of the Kingsguard anyway.

The ride back to her apartment was quiet, almost uncomfortably so. Sansa didn’t think she’d ever met a man less inclined to conversation. She was used to attempts at small talk or flirtation, no matter how poor, but he was utterly silent the entire journey. She could feel him watching her though, curiously resolute, as if he was waiting for her to make the first move, and the effort of keeping her expression bland under the heat of his stare was rather more exciting than anything he could have said.

“What’s your name?” she asked at last, glancing over at him, and then, if only because he looked like he wouldn’t give it up without a fight otherwise, she continued, “I’m Sansa.”

“Sandor,” he muttered, and once again the rumble of his voice sent a jolt of _something_ through her. It wasn’t quite the heat of arousal, but excitement perhaps, or familiarity.

She began to strip the moment they entered her apartment, sighing with newfound comfort as she shimmied out of her dress, which she draped over the back of a chair. Turning, brushing loose strands of hair out of her face in readiness, she found Sandor staring at her, still fully clothed and with his single good eyebrow raised. He wasn’t so scary really, Sansa decided after a moment. Despite the horror of his scarred face, nothing else about him made her particularly uneasy – there was no sly cunning or uncaring callousness about him, only a disgruntled air that she found distinctly amusing.

“Don’t tell me you need help getting all that off,” she said with a laugh, making her way over to him and hooking her fingers playfully over the waistband of his jeans. “You’re not even wearing a tie.”

His hands closed firmly over her wrists, surprisingly gentle for such a large man. “You really do just want a fuck,” he said disbelievingly, his gaze boring into hers, digging for the truth. She blinked, softening for just a moment before the smirk returned to her lips and her eyes dropped to his chest.

“You should never have doubted me.” She laughed, tugging her hands free and beginning to unbuckle his belt with deft fingers. Tugging off his shirt and revealing a physique as heavily muscled as his silhouette had promised, Sandor nudged her aside, pushing his jeans down and stepping quickly out of them. Sansa let her eyes linger, drifting from the solid, hairy bulk of his body to the prominent bulge in the front of his boxers, and felt her heart begin to pound with anticipation.

“Quick,” she murmured, grabbing his arm and pulling him closer. “Here, I want you to do it right here.” She pushed her panties down over her thighs, the fabric already gleaming wetly in the light, and kicked it away before either of them could slip on it and break a bone or two. She could hear Sandor’s breaths deepening now, a steady blowing in his chest like that of an impatient bull as he too tossed his boxers carelessly to the side before fumbling clumsily with a condom in his haste.

Crowding her back against the wall, Sansa felt momentarily cowed as he reached out for her, this half-faced man-beast, and her heart did an odd skip of mingled fear and excitement that heated her cheeks. His eyes swept over her face, and then he said roughly, “You can tell me to stop,” before pulling her up against him like she weighed nothing, his hands gripping at her thighs.

His erection bumped hotly against her belly until he hauled her up higher, chest to chest, and she instinctively hooked her ankles against the small of his back, sighing softly as he slid tantalisingly against her folds. She closed her eyes as Sandor dipped his head and began to suck at her right shoulder, teeth scraping against skin, the stubble peppering the good side of his face dragging against her neck and jaw. The blunt head of his cock stretched her steadily as she squirmed, until with a delicious popping sensation he was nestled just inside her entrance.

Lifting her mouth to his ear, Sansa barely even had to try for the hint of angry desperation in her voice when she commanded, “Fuck me hard, Sandor.” She was wet and aching to be filled, and only the sudden stillness of his form told her that he’d heard her perfectly well. His mouth paused, hot and damp against her skin, until all of a sudden he bit down on the junction right above her collarbone and it _hurt_ , and then he thrust into her hard, filling her in a single stroke as she gasped.

He pumped into her quickly, almost violently, supporting her with steady hands and immovable feet. Wrapping her arms tighter about his neck, Sansa tucked her chin against the warmth of his shoulder and whimpered as he drove relentlessly into her, his breaths blowing hot against her back. She felt almost like a doll, clutched tightly in his arms, limp and helpless as he went on and on and on.

It was a long time before she felt him come, his hips spasming against hers before he shuddered bodily and sank to the ground, softening inside her, his chest rising and falling deeply against hers. She felt warm and sated and tired – tired enough to sleep through the night even – but she wasn’t quite done yet. Staggering to her feet and away from him, the quirk of her lips was decidedly warmer than before as she gave him a tiny nod. _Come_ , her eyes said, and he stared at her, pupils huge and dark, mouth half-opening in a silent question before he too stood and trailed after her.

“Needy little thing, aren’t you,” he grunted as he sprawled across her bed, watching her trail a teasing finger across his sticky cock, twitching in interest despite its softness. She glanced at him appraisingly for a moment before taking him in hand, her fingers sliding easily over the velvety skin as he groaned. There was something about his voice that she liked, some element of it that she felt she knew, and there was little enough that was familiar left to her in Kings Landing.

“Come on,” she crooned once he was standing eagerly at attention once more. “Make me come this time.” She giggled at his stormy glare as she relaxed on her back, legs spread wide in invitation. Crawling over her, he buried himself in her immediately, no biting or touching this time, and she sighed, tipping her head back to the soundtrack of his skin slapping against hers. He was pleasingly huge in every way, his chest almost pressing against her face, a monster taking a maiden, and she quivered with enjoyment at the thought.

“You can be rough, you know,” she gasped, fingers digging into his back as she clutched at him, losing herself in the unstoppable stretch and ease of his movements. He hesitated for a heartbeat before continuing his rapid pace, but it was enough for her to know that he didn’t have it in him. Sandor would never be the kind of man who got off on strangling her or hitting her during sex, and she wasn’t quite sure if she was disappointed or relieved.

But after a time, heeding her increasingly breathless moans, he bent and bit her again, nearer to the side of her neck this time, and she shrieked as she came, convulsing around him as she shook at the pleasure-pain. It was only when she came back to herself that she felt him let go, detaching himself from the marks he had surely left behind. Pulling out, leaving a wet and unpleasant mess behind that she decided she simply lacked the energy to care about right then, she felt his abrupt pause in the lack of movement on her bed. She could almost imagine him glancing about awkwardly, wondering whether or not to leave, or if he should help her to clean up.

“You can stay,” she murmured, feeling pleasantly used and perfectly forgiving. “Just go to sleep.”

Just as she had imagined, he was warm and lovely by her side, lying flat on his back as soft snores emanated from his mouth with every exhalation. Sansa inched as close as she dared without touching him, and she fell asleep thinking of the man who had been rough in a manner that she had actually enjoyed. He hadn’t even made her hurt all that much.

Yes, the night had been very nice indeed.

* * *

It was the steady drumbeat of an unfamiliar ringtone that woke her, along with a low, feral-sounding growl from her left. Her eyes slitting open, she watched Sandor grumble and groan as he half-slumped off her bed and went in search of, presumably, his jeans and phone. She heard the terse, low growl of quiet conversation before he came back into view, looming in her doorway, seemingly at ease with his nakedness.

“My boss,” he said shortly. “I have to go.” He sounded put out, and Sansa couldn’t help smiling a little at that. Had he been hoping for a round of morning sex, or had he just wanted a little more sleep? The extensive scarring pulled his features into a permanent scowl, and the expression certainly appeared to suit his mood right then as he disappeared back into her living room, muttering to himself all the while with clear annoyance.

Sliding out of bed and pulling on a fresh pair of panties, she padded out of her room and settled on the sofa, watching Sandor dress with a strange sense of calm. “What does your boss want with you so early?” she asked, more for the sake of conversation than out of true curiosity. He was magnificent in the light of day, his ridiculous height and the sheer breadth of his body far more apparent to her than the night before.

“I’m his bodyguard,” he muttered, pulling on his shoes without looking up at her, quite unaware of the fresh surge of desire coursing through her the longer she watched. “He’s a little bastard, but the pay is good.” He finally looked over, and she thought that he might even have smiled if he had been the kind of man who smiled, but as it was he merely gave her a polite nod, as if he hadn’t just fucked her twice less than eight hours ago. His steely gaze rested on her face for a moment, then traveled down to her bare breasts, before he turned and let himself out.

Stifling a sigh, Sansa wished they’d had time for that morning romp after all. She was well aware that it was immensely difficult to find a man as perfect for her needs as Sandor – dangerous but not malicious, a little violent without being sadistic, considerate despite his grouchiness, and of course the act itself had been wonderfully fulfilling.

Slipping off the couch, she settled for pleasuring herself in the shower instead, before grabbing a mop and cleaning up the previous night’s mess. There were two large, rather horrific-looking bite marks adorning her shoulder and the juncture by her neck, mottled blue and purple blooming unevenly across her pale skin. She looked like she had been savaged by some creature going in for the kill, except Sandor hadn’t even broken the skin, she realised after another moment of inspection. Idly, she wondered how many other people he had bitten in his life, to know his own strength so well.

Her days were mundane when Hearteater stayed out of sight, and she typically spent her free hours on embroidery, fulfilling the small market that existed for customised kerchiefs and the like. It was a good pastime for someone who enjoyed brooding, being both brainless and something that she was relatively skilled at.

It was only after lunch that she found her phone, buried under a stack of that day’s mail. Jon had replied in his own laconic way with a simple _Come visit soon. We miss you._ Arya had texted as well, an irritable demand that Sansa message them all directly instead of constantly going through Jon, and littered her text with a number of colourful swears that made Sansa want to laugh and cry at the same time. Without really thinking about it, she called Arya’s number on impulse, holding the phone to her ear with both hands as if the device was weighing her down.

“Sansa!” her sister exclaimed immediately after half a dozen or so rings. “Why are you calling?”

Her lashes fluttered, the tears already welling in her eyes at the sound of Arya’s voice. “I don’t know. I just saw your message and wanted to call.” It was almost funny how they had never really gotten along before, when she’d give anything to have her sister by her side now. “How are the boys?”

Arya huffed. “Annoying,” she said shortly, and then she lowered her voice slightly. “Jon’s at work all day, and Rickon’s kind of a piece of work, you know? He won’t do his homework, he doesn’t study. Sometimes he doesn’t even come home till late. I mean, he’s worse than I was, and that’s saying something. I swear if I could see I’d beat the shit out of that twerp.”

Sansa rested her head against the side of the couch, smiling faintly. “Is he home now?”

“Nah, he and Bran are at school. I mean, if he didn’t skip class, that is.” She could almost hear Arya’s shrug through the phone. “And before you ask, I’m _okay_. I don’t know what you’re thinking but I’m not walking into walls or anything when I’m home alone. I can’t wait for you to graduate and get out of that hellhole though. We miss you.”

“I was not imagining you walking into walls,” Sansa protested half-heartedly, but her good mood had faded. She had dropped out of university months ago and she still hated lying to her family about it, but there was really nothing to be done. She couldn’t exactly run off and foil Hearteater’s plans if she was stuck in a lecture, and there was no one else but her, not with the Lannisters still protecting their supposedly-prodigal child.

One day she would prove it. It was a daydream of hers, the day she managed to get Joffrey Baratheon, his pathetic lackeys and his entire extended family thrown into prison for every illegal thing they had ever done. All the rivals they had eliminated, all the threats they had disposed of, all the liabilities they had caused to disappear. She would see justice done, and then she would go home to her family in the north at last.

Finishing her call with a forcibly-extracted promise to visit soon, Sansa set her phone down and stared blankly at the wall before her for a minute, her mind lost in the past. The events of that night no longer haunted her dreams as frequently as before, but they always returned inevitably, as if to keep her on her toes. She could still feel it, the warm spatter of blood on her face as the bomb went off, sending a jagged piece of metal spinning into Robb’s neck right beside her. He hadn’t even had time to look surprised before his head tilted towards her, his throat gaping open, and his body toppled off his seat.

Sighing, Sansa reached for her sewing kit and began to thread a needle. It was another quiet day.

Hearteater reappeared a week later to rob a doughnut shop, an endeavor Sansa suspected was due to his own childish criminal proclivities rather than any scheming on the part of the Lannister empire. The Hound and The Gallows were with him, but much to her pleasure The Shadow was nowhere to be seen. She hoped she’d hit him so hard his nose rotted right off his face.

She didn’t waste any time with small talk. The moment she landed outside the shop, she strode in and blasted Hearteater with twin bolts of energy that secured his wrists to the walls, rendering him quite immobile. As little as she thought of the blonde twit, he was the biggest threat to her, and she didn’t want an endless supply of daggers tossed at her by a ranting maniac. The Gallows was all but useless indoors, unless he wanted to start an earthquake that might kill Hearteater and himself just as much as her, and so she turned her attention to The Hound.

The big man had been slouched against a corner of the shop, hands folded across his chest, but he had straightened at her entrance, his snarling mask turning towards her. Fists clenched by her sides, she stood her ground, but there was very little else she could do. The hapless doughnut store employee was gone, probably escaped out the back at the first sight of trouble, and the police would never be able to take on The Hound. Even she could only restrain his unnatural strength for mere minutes with her energy constructs.

“Kill her!” Hearteater shrieked, thrashing like an angered snake. “If you don’t kill that stupid bird bitch today, I’ll gut you instead, I swear it. Now I can’t even have doughnuts? Kill her!”

The Gallows leaped for her immediately with a quickness she hadn’t expected, and she went down hard beneath him. Gasping and winded, she instinctively threw a barrier up between their bodies and he slid away, cursing. The next moment, The Hound was there, his fist smashing down on her hasty defense with a force that left her breathless. The energy of her barrier flickered, white cracks appearing all along its surface, and she stared up at the man standing above her, already swinging down for another hit.

Just before his punch connected, she vanished her barrier and rolled to the side, scrambling away as his momentum sent him smashing into the tiles, his blow leaving a half-foot deep crater in the ground. Even The Gallows stepped back, seemingly startled, but The Hound swung around in an instant, far quicker than his ungainly size would suggest, and she felt his hand close painfully around her ankle with a grip like iron. Panicked, Sansa twisted in his grasp and flung a sharpened projectile at him, aiming for blood for the first time she could remember. The Hound slapped it away and it embedded itself in the wall instead, before fading into nothingness, but for an instant his fingers loosened, and Sansa pulled free.

Without a single look back, she fled. She knew when she had been beaten.

Deep down, she knew that she shouldn’t even have been there. Her presence had caused far more damage to the immediate vicinity than her absence, but she hadn’t been able to resist Hearteater’s presence. He drew her to him like a drug – every sight of him reminded her of what she was fighting for. On the days he didn’t appear, she felt like a lost kite, drifting aimlessly without focus for her vengeance. He was hers and hers alone to destroy.

She returned to the Flea Bottom pubs that night, restless and out of sorts, but found that she had little inclination to bring anyone home. She did, however, find a man who took her out to a back alley and shoved himself so far down her throat that she choked and cried as he came. Her knees were bruised and littered with tiny cuts when she reached home, but the tension in her had not yet abated.

She found Sandor at the Kingsguard again the next night, ensconced in another corner. He barely looked at her when she slid in beside him, and then did a double-take so violent when he finally noticed who she was that she laughed out loud.

“Have a drink,” he grunted in lieu of a greeting, waving the bartender over. Sansa shrugged, the corners of her lips curving upwards unbidden, enjoying the unconcealed surprise radiating off him despite the neutrality of his expression.

He didn’t speak until she had finished the glass, and even then it was only a gruff, “Lonely again?” that enticed another chuckle out of her. Her chest loosened slightly at his tone – he wasn’t going to say no.

“Very lonely,” she agreed, and his cheek twitched in something that she thought might almost be a smile. The thought of his big hands on her and his cock splitting her open was making her unaccountably warm. Shifting closer to him, angling her back to the rest of the room, she took his hand and brought it to the slit of her dress. The brush of his calloused fingers against the top of her thigh made her shiver, and the muscles of her arms were taut with tension as his touch stopped just above her clit, a low hiss coming from between his teeth when he realised she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

Once again, they didn’t make it to her room. She had barely even shut the front door before his arm was around her waist, hauling her to him and pushing her to the floor. She heard the slide of his zipper and the crinkle of a foil wrapper, and when she looked back over her shoulder his cock was already out, his pants still around his hips. Wiggling her ass in the air and pulling her dress up to give him easier access, she cried out when he drove into her, one of his hands coming around to clutch at her breast through the dress. The sudden stretch and sting hurt, but it wasn’t a bad pain, not with the ache of her skinned knees to contend with, and she pushed back onto him, listening to his low growls with distant satisfaction.

He seemed to come back to himself after a few moments, his thrusts slowing to a less frantic pace as he stroked along her back with a tender sort of indulgence. “I’m going to turn you over,” he said after a while, almost as if he had been mulling about it. “Better to see your pretty face.” He leered at her as he pulled out and she resettled herself on her back, but it felt more like a friendly tease than anything truly dirty. Raising her knees, she pulled him down over her, and she supposed he hadn’t been expecting it, because he had to catch himself with his hands against the ground, and for a moment they were almost nose-to-nose, before he sucked in a startled breath and pulled back.

Pushing himself into her again, his dark gaze trailed down her face to her bare shoulders, settling on the unblemished skin where the marks of his bites had all but faded. There was that twitch in his cheek again, and Sansa decided that it really could be nothing else but a smile. Curling her fingers over the back of his neck, she pulled his head down to her chest, and his teeth immediately closed over the thin skin there. The movement of his hips slowed even more as he nipped his way along her collarbone, until he was rocking against her like an afterthought as he leisurely laved his way up her neck with his tongue.

The curve of her spine was sore against the hard floor, but Sansa felt jelly-like all the same. It wasn’t the harsh, angry coupling she had envisioned, but this slow intimacy was pleasantly filling all the same, if only for its sheer novelty. Baring the left side of her neck invitingly, she waited for Sandor to move his attentions to the other side of her body, but he lifted his mouth from her skin instead and frowned down at her. His hips snapped against hers, picking up the pace once more, and she moaned, fingers winding in his hair.

“Quick,” she gasped, her voice hoarse even though she had hardly used it. “Bite me before – before I…” Her words trailed off into an unintelligible whine at the unbearable tightening within her that accompanied every thrust, and still he hesitated. It was only when she wailed and clenched down hard on him that he too came with a roar and plunged down to catch her shoulder in a bruising bite. Her back arched, arms tightening as she pressed closer to him and sang her pleasure, and in that instant she understood why he had hesitated.

His scars were rough and uneven to the touch, like a dried scab that had never peeled off. Where he pressed against her, his scars chafed much like a beard would, radiating warmth just as the rest of his body did. It was a strange sensation, and hardly pleasant to look at, but Sansa found it very hard to care right then.

He pulled away quicker than she would have liked, shaking his head slightly like an irritated horse. “You little minx,” he rasped, but he didn’t sound upset. He watched her cautiously for a moment before beginning to remove his clothes, and it was only then that Sansa realised she was also still fully dressed. With a giggle sweetened by her post-coital high, she unzipped her dress and unsnapped her bra, tossing both garments onto the sofa before retreating to her bedroom.

Sandor let out a yawn as he crawled onto her bed after her, and Sansa had the oddest urge right then to pull him into a kiss. It felt like it would be right somehow, to have his mouth on hers before they went for a second round, but she kept her hands to herself and watched him lazily as he stretched, muscles rippling. His eyes glimmered hungrily as he settled himself on his knees and looked down at her, one hand trailing along her thigh before he opened her up to his hungry stare.

For a second, Sansa actually thought that he might go down on her, but he froze unexpectedly instead. “What’s this?” he said roughly, one hand wrapping around her ankle where The Hound had grabbed her the day before. She flinched and pulled away, and he let her go without a word. Pushing herself up, they both stared down at her ankle, purple and black in the dim light reaching almost halfway up her calf. She hoped it didn’t look too much like a handprint, for that might have been rather difficult to explain.

“It’s just a bruise,” she said lamely, and wondered why he cared so much. She reached for his hand but found it clenched into a white-knuckled fist against his thigh. A muscle in his jaw was jumping, and this time she suspected it didn’t have anything to do with smiling at all.

“It looks fresh,” he said tersely. There weren’t many words in him, and she rather liked that when he wasn’t interrogating her about injuries she had received while fighting crime. He reminded her very much of Jon in that way, who cared more in actions than with speech.

She shifted uncomfortably, wishing he hadn’t seen the mark, or just elected to ignore it like almost every other man would have. “I fell yesterday,” she sighed, and not wholly untruthfully. “It’s nothing. I –”

She glanced up at him, and the rest of her words dried up in her mouth. He was just kneeling there and looking at her intently with a growing furrow between his brows, like he might be able to scoop her thoughts right out of her head with the force of his stare. He reached out and closed his hand about her ankle again, and this time she didn’t pull away. His hand was large, but it still didn’t quite cover the entire bruise, the splash of redness fading out from the span of his hand like a piece of abstract watercolour. The sight unnerved her, although for what reason she couldn’t say.

“Sansa…you’re Sansa Stark,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence with the harshness of his voice, and her head jerked up at that.

That was all the confirmation he needed. He backed away from her like he had found out she was diseased, and his expression, so often difficult to read, looked very clearly sickened to her eyes. He stumbled away from her and into her living room like he had been stunned by a blow to the head, and she could hear him dressing himself hurriedly, unable to get away from her fast enough.

“What did I do?” she asked, following him and stopping just out of reach, forcing herself to stand straight and proud despite the tremor in her voice. “Sandor?”

“It’s not you,” he said shortly, like a terrible parody of a clichéd break-up, but he sounded pained and furious, and she could only watch silently as he shut the door behind him without even meeting her eyes one last time.

* * *

Sansa didn’t go back to the Kingsguard. She had very little desire to find out exactly why learning her name had made Sandor look like he had swallowed a goose egg whole, and he certainly knew where she lived if he suddenly saw the need to apologise, but two months passed with neither sight nor sound of the scarred man.

She interrupted Hearteater thrice more in that time, once for a bank robbery early in the morning with seven hostages. He had seemed far more interested in putting fear into the hearts of the hostages than actually making off with any money, and three people had knife wounds by the time she managed to knock the angry Baratheon out. As expected, The Hound had grabbed the idiot and made off with him, leaving the other two to follow along at their own pace – his entire role seemed to consist of keeping Hearteater alive, and he rarely seemed inclined to do more than that unless directly ordered, which Sansa was only too happy to take advantage of.

Bran called her once on a Sunday, and passed the phone to Rickon halfway through, the younger boy’s shaggy hair and animated movements a far cry from Bran’s tidy appearance and placid smile. Already Rickon seemed taller than when she had last seen him, even through a shaky, grainy video. He was all flailing limbs as he paced through the house like a trapped animal, and the derisive roll of his eyes when she mentioned his schoolwork startled her. It had only been a year, but he was no longer the baby brother she remembered.

“I’ll come and visit soon,” she promised, as she had been promising for months, and she meant it, but there simply never seemed to be a good time to leave.

Rickon’s scoff at that, so quintessentially teenage in its cynicism, cut her to the quick, and she burst into tears of guilt after ending the call. She thought of calling Arya or Jon after that, but she could hardly see any point in it. They would only tell her the same thing – _come home, Sansa._ That was all they wanted, and she didn’t blame them, but there was just no way for them to understand. Arya was still adapting to her blindness, and Jon no doubt had his hands full supporting two disabled cousins and one increasingly rebellious teenager.

They didn’t share her need for justice because they weren’t in her position, where she _could_ see justice done.

Hearteater struck again a week later, and Sansa felt perversely pleased. Nightingale was still needed in Kings Landing.

All reports placed him outside of the city this time, on a little farm beside the kingswood that led trail riding tours for eager tourists. The view from above was beautiful, an expanse of dark green stretching off into the distance, rivers winding blue and peaceful out of sight. Nevertheless, Sansa circled the area cautiously for a few minutes. Hearteater and his minions were nowhere in sight, and she hadn’t the faintest idea what the villain might be up to in a place like this.

Landing softly in the dirt of an open-air arena, she looked around uncertainly. The ground looked churned up by nothing worse than hooves, and there was no sign of a struggle even around the buildings. Stepping closer to the rustic-looking farmhouse, she peered in through the windows, but the place looked empty. She shivered slightly, more out of nerves than anything else, as she debated the relative stupidity of calling out against the possibility of finding someone who needed help.

 _Strange,_ was her first thought as she looked around again, and then, right on its heels the realization – _it’s a trap_.

Spinning, the heel of her foot leaving a groove in the soil, her wings snapped out into existence, but before she could leap into the air, a hand wrenched her backwards roughly. The Shadow, as good as his name, had slipped out of the darkness beneath the eaves of the farmhouse, and his other hand came flying towards her face. Stumbling backwards, her right wing cracking against the wall of the building and vanishing, only pure instinct had her throwing up a barrier to protect her face. Even flimsy and flickering, The Shadow howled with pain when his fist connected with the thin film of grey energy.

“You’re dead meat,” he spat, flinging her forward and away from him. She sprawled in the dirt, sputtering, and instantly found her limbs encased in crawling soil. It seeped over her hands and up her arms with a horrifying swiftness. Trying to rear back, she slashed at the soil with a series of energy blades, flinging dirt everywhere until her hands were freed, but by then her feet were buried up to her ankles and she lost her balance, falling back with a dull thud.

Blinking rapidly, she pushed herself back upright and tried to orient herself. The Shadow was still some distance away, nursing his right hand, which she sincerely hoped was fractured. The Gallows was surely somewhere nearby considering the little trap he had laid for her, and she twisted about, hands glowing with rage that she longed to unleash. As she turned, she caught sight of a flash of gold in her peripheral vision: Hearteater emerging from the farmhouse.

“Hello, Nightingale,” he said sweetly, but she was already whirling about to face him as quickly as she was able with her feet trapped. She flung one hand out towards him, a bolt of energy leaving her fingers, and at the same moment she felt something thump into her right shoulder. A second knife flew through the air within seconds, sending her construct veering off course before landing quivering at her feet.

Hearteater smiled at her, another blade appearing in his hands with an arrogant flourish. “I should have done this long ago,” he said, pacing slowly before her like he had all the time in the world. “You’ve been such a massive pain in my ass. Lions do not suffer the useless sheep to live.”

Sansa blinked at him, her mind racing. Her right sleeve was starting to feel very wet, and she knew that if she looked down she would see one of Hearteater’s ornate gold hilts sticking out of her shoulder. If she didn’t get out of there immediately, she was fairly certain she wouldn’t be going anywhere in the foreseeable future. The pain was starting to hit, vivid and acute, and she was horribly clear-headed, but she knew the adrenaline rush wouldn’t last for long.

“You haven’t done this before because you’re a useless rich boy who needs other people to clean up his messes,” she sneered.

Hearteater’s eyes flew wide. “Shut up! You’re just a stupid girl,” he screeched, and he flung almost half a dozen daggers at her in quick succession. Throwing up a shimmering dome around her, Sansa ignored him in favour of cutting through the earth beneath her feet and dragging herself free of the loose block of dirt. All the while, she could feel The Gallows at work beneath her, the ground doing its level best to suck her back in, flowing sluggishly over her feet.

With one last twist, she burst out of her shield, wings flaring. She heard Hearteater scream something that sounded like “Dog!” but she was already in the air and out of reach. Another dagger flew past her, and then a line of fire cut through her calf as she jerked to the right. Looking back, she saw Hearteater waving yet another blade at her, and The Hound behind him, looking up at her with his hand shading his eyes from the sun.

She had only just reached the walls of Kings Landing when the dagger in her shoulder vanished with a suddenness that left her light-headed. It felt like there was a constant rush of cold air gusting against her open wound as she flew as swiftly as her wings would carry her, and blackness spotted her vision for such a long time that she thought her heart would pound its way right out of her chest. As quickly as she could, she sealed a thin barrier of energy over the pain pulsing its way up her neck and down her arm, and hoped that it would be enough to keep her lifeblood where it belonged.

She was fairly certain she should be heading for the hospital, but surely Hearteater had been in contact with his family. Surely the Lannisters would already be on the lookout for her, a young woman with a stab wound in her shoulder.

She was wobbling dangerously and losing altitude by the time she landed on the roof of her apartment building, hitting the ground with an utter lack of grace and immediately crumping with a moan of pain. Rolling to her feet before she could decide to lay there on the sun-warmed concrete forever, Sansa was too light-headed to feel any true panic.

 _Get home_ , she thought, forcing her leaden legs to move forward step by step. _Just get home and you can rest._

It seemed to take her an age to get the front door unlocked, and some part of her mind dimly registered that she was smearing blood all over the handle as she fumbled with the keys. _I’ll clean it up later_ , she told herself, and promptly fell to her knees the moment she pushed the door closed behind her. Tugging at her mask until it slipped over the thick bun she had wound her hair up in, she sucked in a deep breath and lowered herself gingerly to the floor.

She wouldn’t sleep. She’d just – take a break for a moment, and then she would look for some bandages and Google her way out of this mess. She closed her eyes and started to count to twenty. She’d get up once she reached twenty.

Everything would be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're confused, here's a (hopefully) helpful supers glossary:
> 
>   * Nightingale: energy manipulation, most commonly used to create a pair of wings on her back; can also form barriers for defense and projectiles for attack
>   * Hearteater: weapon creation, specifically blades
>   * The Hound: enhanced strength, healing and stamina
>   * The Gallows: earth manipulation
>   * The Shadow: shadow camouflage
> 



	2. interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There're probably like a billion medical inaccuracies here whoops.

Sandor thought it was a bit of a miracle that he hadn’t yet killed either of the fuckers he worked with. Even now, Boros was whinging like a spoilt child about his injured hand, and Sandor was seized with the vague desire to just rip the fat fucker’s arm off at the shoulder and shove it up his hairy arse. It was probably just bruised, the dumb cunt. One spoilt child among their number was already quite enough for him, and he wasn’t even being paid to tolerate Boros’ idiocy.

“You need to be faster next time, Dog. Faster! Do you even know what speed is?” Joff was off on another one of his rants, and Sandor could already feel his mind begin to wind down in response. “We had her right there, that stupid Nightingale. Acting like some damn angel flying around everywhere. I won’t kill her straight off the next time. You three can have her first. She’s got a tight body – it won’t even matter what she looks like under that mask.”

That was pretty much when Sandor tuned out completely. The thought of Sansa was not comforting in the least – she had been dripping blood as she winged away, and he knew perfectly well that Joff’s weapons disappeared once they were out of range. He couldn’t help imagining her crash landing in some alley and curling up to die.

It took another hour for them to return Joff to his posh, fully-funded Lannister hideout and for Sandor to get himself dismissed for the day. Boros slumped off to the hospital to get his hand seen to, and Sandor stormed off before Meryn could pass the watch over to him. Not today – today that lazy cunt would have to do some actual guarding for once in his life, instead of nancing around with some too-young girl while Joff slept.

Sandor reached Sansa’s apartment in record time and stopped dead, eyes narrowing at the sight that greeted him. The door and wall were covered with bloody fingerprints, as well as a longish smear where she had probably leaned against the wall to catch her breath. The whole place looked and smelled disturbingly like a crime scene. The drying droplets of blood led him to the stairwell, and from there all the way up to the roof no doubt, but clean-up was going to have to wait.

He found her key still in the lock, but he wouldn’t have needed it anyway. The front door was blatantly unlocked and he pushed it open carefully, unsurprised to find her quite literally keeled over on the floor right in front of him, still in her sleek Nightingale costume with her mask dangling from her limp hand. He was amazed she had even made it home in the first place.

Stepping into the apartment, he shut the door and locked it, holding back a nervous swallow as he knelt at her side. There was a small but disconcerting pool of dark blood beneath her shoulder, less than he would have expected considering the amount of time that had passed, but all that mattered to him was that she was very clearly still breathing.

“Sansa,” he said, as loudly as he dared. “Sansa.” Her eyes began to move beneath her lids, her lashes fluttering slightly, and he breathed a sigh of relief to see the slight parting of her lips as if in response to the sound of her name.

“Don’t die on me, girl,” he muttered, half to himself, as he slid his arms beneath her back and her knees. Lifting her up, he hastened to the bathroom. In his arms, she felt just like the little bird she had adopted as her alias, frighteningly fragile and lighter than a feather. Lowering her to the floor of the shower, it seemed to take an eternity to peel her ridiculous outfit off her without jostling her too violently.

The wound on her shoulder was just over an inch wide, a black-crusted slit seated beneath her collarbone that seemed to have clotted successfully on its own. Half her bra was stained an alarming crimson, and Sandor leaned back for a moment, wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do. His own enhanced strength came with the helpful side effect of an increased rate of healing, and he had obviously never had cause to dress anyone else’s wounds either.

With another hesitant glance at the unconscious woman, half-afraid she might expire the moment he took his eyes off her pale face, Sandor turned and began to dig through her bathroom cupboards, grabbing a couple of smaller towels and wetting them in the sink. Returning to her side, he squeezed one of the soaked towels over her shoulder and watched the water run a pale red down her skin, between the valley of her breasts and off the side of her stomach. The sight made him feel slightly ill, and he felt very much like an idiot who could do nothing more than wring his hands uselessly while someone else got Sansa the help she actually needed.

It took an age of careful, repeated dabbing and wetting before the dried blood was cleared fully, revealing the raw, split flesh beneath. The graze across her shin was less worrying. It was long but shallow, and he doubted it would reopen again as long as she didn’t go haring off in search of Joff the moment she awoke.

Once the blood and dirt on her skin and under her nails had been washed off to the best of his ability, he removed her wet underwear before finally carrying her to bed. Tugging her bun loose so she could rest her head comfortably, he couldn’t help running his fingers through the silky strands just a moment longer than he should. He had always liked the look of her hair, the way it shone bright in the light, setting her apart from most of the people around her, but somehow the two of them had always been a little too occupied with other things for him to have ever fully enjoyed the beauty of her hair.

And then there was the matter of the whole damn blood trail leading up to her doorstep. With a deep sigh, Sandor went off in search of a pail and prepared himself for quite a bit of scrubbing.

In the end, Sansa didn’t wake until late into the night, a fact that Sandor was highly grateful for. The mess outside her house and just in her doorway had been largely erased, and he had settled himself on the floor by her bed, head tilted back against the mattress as he scanned through the news on his phone. A can of chicken soup he had found was sitting in a pot on the stove, and all was quiet.

The sudden heavy exhalation behind him was the only warning that she was returning to wakefulness, and he immediately stood, bending over her with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His heart was going at a decidedly anxious pace in his chest, and it would have made him uneasy if he’d had the time to think on it. He barely even knew this woman, and all she had seemed to want from him was his dick, although even that might no longer be true considering the way he had walked out on her months before – and yet.

“Sansa,” he said gruffly, wondering if he should hold her hand or something. As her eyes opened slowly, dull and disoriented, the weight in his chest only seemed to increase, until he could no longer say anything at all. He only stood there as the look on her face sharpened incrementally, her gaze locking onto his with confusion at his presence before darting about the room, as if she expected someone else to be hiding in the corners.

“Sandor,” she murmured, her voice thick. “I thought – The Hound. I heard him.”

He put a hand on her uninjured shoulder before she could try to sit up. “Don’t,” he said shortly. “I didn’t bandage anything. I’m not the best at these kinds of things.”

He felt it like a blow the moment she stilled utterly beneath his touch, her jaw gaping as she stared up at him. “You,” she breathed, although it sounded to him like she might have spat in his face if she’d had the strength to. “Get away from me.”

“Don’t,” he snapped once more, as he felt her start to struggle against him. “You’re hurt. Just – don’t. I’m not going to hurt you. I didn’t tell anyone else.” Annoyed, the weight in his chest burning against him, he backed away slowly when it looked as if she was no longer on the verge of trying to murder him with her bare hands. She looked small and broken in the bed, her skin chalky, but her eyes were hard and unforgiving.

 _Stark_ , he thought darkly as he ladled soup into a bowl. It had been a long time since he’d thought back to that night. He hadn’t been there during the attack, but he had done the clean-up, and he remembered it being particularly ugly. He wondered if Sansa had been the one to identify her parents. He didn’t think there had been much left of them, not with where they had been sitting. Either way, one thing was clear to him – she wasn’t going to just twirl around and forgive him no matter how many fucking bowls of soup he prepared for her.

She looked half-asleep when he entered the room again, her face slack and drowsy, but she flinched when he flicked the table lamp on, the soft golden hue casting long shadows across the room. Her expression hardened when she set eyes on him, taut with blatant distrust and the kind of wariness she hadn’t worn even when she had brought him home for the first time.

Sandor raised the bowl like a peace offering. “You should drink something. You lost a lot of blood.” He hesitated for a moment, then continued, as if it would make things any better, “It’s from your own cupboard. I don’t poison people.”

Sansa’s lip curled. “No, you blow them up, don’t you.”

He stiffened, a mixture of impatience and annoyance boiling within him, and it was with a massive effort that he called upon what dregs of decency he had left to hold himself back from shouting at a badly injured person.

“Drink your soup. It’s still warm,” he said flatly, and only a little bit of it sloshed over the sides of the bowl when he set it down beside the lamp with rather more force than was strictly necessary. He angled the spoon towards her before turning and walking out of her room, her apartment, and her entire fucking building with a distinct sense of satisfaction.

There. He’d done all he could for Sansa Stark.

He was halfway down the street when he thought about the soup, and then the fact that she probably couldn’t lift her right arm to hold the spoon without opening her damned wound again. _She can bloody well use her left hand then_ , he thought, but somehow, without even meaning to, he had already turned around and was striding back in the direction he had come. He felt upset and jittery, and very much like a pot about to boil over.

He slammed back into her apartment, which he had obviously not been able to lock on the way out, and realised right then that he had left her in an unsecured place completely defenseless. Surely the way he was feeling was just about how Meryn felt every single day – stupid and incompetent.

Entering her room at a slower pace, he found Sansa curled slightly on her side, her weight resting on her left shoulder. There were tear tracks down her face, disappearing into the pillow, and a soft sniff escaped her even as he watched. The soup sat where he had left it, untouched.

“Come on,” he muttered, and he wasn’t sure if it was to himself or to Sansa. She opened her eyes when he took a seat beside her, lifting her gingerly so that she was leaning against him, the top of her head just brushing his jaw if he turned too far to the right. She felt loose and relaxed against him, and he suspected that she was simply too tired to really protest his presence. Dragging the blankets up from where they had remained pooled against her thighs, he draped them around her shoulders like a cloak, wrapping her up as best he could while doing his level best to ignore the way her nipples had pebbled against the air.

She opened her mouth obligingly for the first spoonful of soup, and the next and the next, and Sandor felt weak-limbed with relief. He didn’t like the thought of quarreling with Sansa on a good day, but force-feeding her while she was injured _and_ hated him on top of it felt like a little much. He could be a brute, but he wasn’t that kind of brute, or so he hoped.

 _She’s just a good lay_ , he thought rather firmly to himself. That was exactly why he was sitting here in her room, feeding her soup by the spoonful after cleaning her, her house and her corridor up when he could have been brooding over a couple glasses of gin at the Kingsguard. Maybe after she was better she’d let him have another fuck.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he felt the slightest twinge of guilt in his gut whenever he thought about what had become of her family. The Starks had gone up against the Lannisters and lost, because the lions played dirty and the wolves didn’t. He didn’t think they should have gone after the kids though, but he knew that Tywin Lannister hadn’t seen it that way. The Lannisters hadn’t gone after the kids – the kids had merely been collateral damage.

It was all just politics.

Tywin Lannister had probably attended the Stark funerals in sombre black and said, “It wasn’t personal” to the coffins without twitching an eyelid.

Shaking the confusing thoughts out of his mind, Sandor set the empty bowl down with a soft _thud_ and leaned back against the headboard. Sansa was a soft, warm weight against him, his right arm wrapped around her side to keep her steady. She had shifted slightly after a few minutes, her shoulder digging into his ribs as she repositioned herself into a more comfortable curl that made it nigh impossible for him to leave.

Still, he hesitated. “Should I –” he started, before breaking off. It was one thing to know that the young woman he’d had hot sex with multiple times was not only a superhero with superpowers, but also the archenemy of his charge. It was another thing entirely to know that she knew it too, and disliked him immensely for it.

Lifting her head just a little so that she bumped against his chin, her words emerged as a sort of weary half-sigh. “You can stay,” she murmured. She sounded sad and worn out, with an additional twinge of strain to her voice that he thought might be the pain. He should have hunted around for painkillers for her, but it was too late now, stupid cunt that he was. Instead, he held her against him as he swung his feet up onto the bed, his muscles tightening as he tried to imbue every movement with a delicacy that was far from innate for him.

Her breath hitched slightly only once, as he reached out to switch the light off, but after that she was silent.

The minutes ticked by with agonising slowness, but Sandor remained awake, staring alternately at the ceiling and the opposite wall as he listened to Sansa’s slow, peaceful breaths. More than once he had to tighten his grip to steady her when she moved in her sleep, out of fear that she would jostle her right arm. In spite of his earlier efforts, there was still the faint smell of blood and soil about her, and when he finally slept he dreamed of being buried alive by his brother.

It felt like only a minute later that he was jerked awake by Sansa’s hand lightly tapping his chest, and he clearly heard her stifle a gasp behind her teeth when he moved to get a better look at her. Her colour seemed marginally better, although her forehead was dotted with beads of perspiration and her eyes were wide as she craned her neck up to peer up at him.

“Sandor,” she said quietly, and clearly not for the first time, “I think I’m bleeding.”

It was only then that he realised there was a hand-sized red stain peeking through the blanket covering her, and promptly muttered a vehement _fuck_ under his breath at the sight.

“Hold it. Put pressure on it or something,” he said immediately, sliding out from beneath her and grabbing her left hand to press it over the stain.

Wincing, she pulled away. “Ow – _Sandor_. I’m fine,” she said, exasperated, peeling off the blanket to reveal one of her grey films of energy stretched neatly over the wound. “I just…I think we should wrap it up or something, but I don’t think I have anything for that at home.” Her eyes darted off to the side, a dull flush beginning to stain her neck, surprisingly vivid against her skin.

“I’ll go out and grab something for that,” he said at once, if only to ease the discomfort on her face. “I’ll get breakfast as well.” He felt that he should step away from her at that point, but the surprise of having her speak so cordially to him left him staring foolishly. “Do you – need to use the bathroom before I go?”

Her expression relaxed into something approximating relief, albeit with a residual wariness that still lingered about the corners of her eyes. “Please,” she said gratefully, and allowed him to help her hobble into the bathroom with all the grace of a bandy-legged duck.

In the end, he left her to fumble with the shower on her own and grabbed her keys before leaving the apartment. He certainly wasn’t about to leave her in an unlocked flat alone again. Striding quickly through the streets, Sandor barely realised that he was scowling fiercely enough for passersby to part smoothly before him on the sidewalk. He ran his hand repeatedly over the hard shape of the phone in his pocket, convinced that it would ring at any moment, either Boros or Meryn requesting a cover after taking the night shift.

 _Damn woman_ , he thought resentfully to himself as he ducked into the pharmacy.

After two months of determinedly trying to forget that Sansa Stark was Nightingale’s secret identity, it was all of a sudden extremely difficult not to think about her, mostly because he didn’t quite know _what_ to think of her. The mere thought of her left him feeling confused and floundering, with the burgeoning and completely nonsensical desire to see her smile at him once more. She wasn’t even the first person to make a move on someone like him, and yet here he was, falling head over heels like a fucking daisy in the wind because beneath it all, something about her had felt – _kind_.

He couldn’t stand being patronised, or worse, pitied for the mess that was left of his face, but somehow being overwhelmed by sheer niceness wasn’t so bad.

She was messed up in the head though; that had been obvious enough after his two trysts with her. But then he was a pretty big fuck-up himself, so maybe that was exactly why they were a good match.

Sandor snorted out loud at the very thought. Him and Sansa Stark? Surely that had to be the joke of the century.


	3. the way you helped me escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a lot of last minute changes to this chapter today ugh. Calling it an early night and I hope this doesn't disappoint!

After some time had passed, there developed a sort of horrifying domesticity to it all. After all, Sansa could hardly have rejected Sandor’s help in those first few days, when she could hardly even get dressed without reopening her wound, bandage or no bandage. He prepared food for her, helped her hobble to and fro like an invalid, and even did the cleaning up. It probably helped that he had seen her naked before and had at some point gained the ability to peer at her wound while completely ignoring her bare breasts, for he no longer looked at her with the same stormy lust that she had once thought of with some fondness.

Not that she cared, really.

It was only that he had started sleeping in her bed that first night and never quite stopped. He still leaped to attention at Hearteater’s calls and left at odd times of the day, often for hours on end, but he always returned eventually. Usually he would enter laden with groceries, toiletries or whatever other items she might have mentioned in passing or that he had seen and thought she might need.

It was a discomfiting situation, but not actually wholly unpleasant as far as cohabiting went, as long as she didn’t think overmuch about the villainous things he might be doing when he wasn’t slumming around her apartment. It was nice to have someone around just for company. It reminded her, just a little, of what home had used to mean to her – the noise, the warmth and the care. Most of the time, it was even enough to make her forget that The Hound and Sandor were one and the same.

“Get much sewing done today?” he asked, walking into the bedroom with his hair still damp from the shower, bare-chested until he pulled on the shirt he had left at the foot of the bed.

Sansa glanced up at him from her phone, and the brief hesitation on her part was enough to have him slowing to fix her with his forceful stare. “Not really,” she admitted at last, bowing easily beneath the pressure. “My hand gets numb easily. And my fingers – I can’t really move them that well.” She could hear the wavering fear in her own voice, matched by the gradual furrowing of Sandor’s brow as his gaze flickered from her face down to where her right hand rested against the covers.

“There could be nerve damage!” Sandor had roared at her just a couple of days after the stabbing, trying once again to convince her to see a doctor with his usual modus operandi of bluster and fury. Completely unfazed, Sansa had refused point-blank, but she knew that that was exactly what was going through both their minds right then.

Taking a seat beside her, he spent an inordinate amount of time arranging the blankets over his legs before he finally spoke, his voice a low rasp in the quiet. “It’s only been two weeks. It’s early yet.” She could feel him looking at her, but she couldn’t bring herself to raise her head. Here she was, half her family dead, the other half hundreds of miles away, and somehow she couldn’t even manage to do a single thing right. Hearteater was still alive and kicking as he merrily caused chaos, and all the while she lay around consorting with the enemy.

And yet she didn’t pull away when Sandor reached over to take her right hand in his, his skin warm and his touch soft. Without a word, he began to knead the pad of his thumbs over her knuckles, the hollow between her thumb and forefinger, the narrow bones visible on the back of her hand. It didn’t feel much like he knew what he was doing, but she liked it well enough, and it soothed some of the lingering pain in her wrist as well. She liked the roughness of his fingers against her skin – she thought that if she looked hard enough, she might see the traces of his fingerprints on her, faint dark whorls tainting her the longer she allowed him to stay.

Sighing, she leaned carefully to the side, her right shoulder only twinging a faint protest when she pressed it against the solid bulk of his bicep, the tight pull of a wound scabbed over.

“You should leave him,” she said, eyes closed as he continued his amateur massage on her hand. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so torn in two then, her abject loneliness warring against her all-consuming hate. Oh, how desperately she had wanted to hate him, but she didn’t think she could give him up now that she remembered what it was like to have someone to lean on.

He snorted deep in his chest. “It’s not that easy.” They’d never spoken outright of his work with Joffrey before, and he seemed uncertain how to continue now that Sansa was no longer skirting around the elephant in the room. “I know things about him and his family. Lots of dirty things that could get them all locked up. There’s no leaving once you get in.”

Sansa wondered if he could feel her heart racing just by holding her palm in his hands. “Then why not just do it? Get them all locked up,” she said slowly, the slow crawl of excitement taking hold of her. “You’re exactly what I need. You know all their plans, everything they’ve done.” She straightened and turned to face him, the lovely fluttery sensation of hope taking wing in her chest for the first time in what felt like forever.

Sandor was looking at her like she was completely insane, the burned side of his face scowling viciously down at her. “Not everything,” he warned. “And they’d probably have me offed before the investigation even started if I started confessing all that shit to the cops. The Lannisters have people everywhere.”

Sansa stared at him, a single brow raising at his immediate retreat. “There’s always a way,” she said coolly, the corner of her lips pulling up in a humourless smirk. “But I can make do with Joffrey’s corpse for a start. If the Lannisters have any love left in their cold, dead hearts, then maybe they’ll know how I feel every day.” She pulled her hand out of his grasp and lay down with her back to him, clenching and unclenching her fists slowly. The fourth finger of her right hand wouldn’t quite bend all the way, so she pressed it down with her left and felt it tingle numbly.

Sandor was motionless for a moment, before he reached over her to turn the bedside lamp off and shuffled down into a comfortable position. He wasn’t touching her, but she could feel his presence anyway, larger than life and vaguely overwhelming. Would it really be so hard, Sansa thought with a faint sense of vindictiveness, for him to just reach out and snap Joffrey’s skinny little neck one fine day? They could pin it on The Gallows, or even The Shadow. She wondered what it would take to make him do it.

Fair play was all well and good when she had been on equal standing with her enemies, but what had it ever done for her family except get them killed? She felt as if her heart iced over a little more each time she closed her eyes and saw Hearteater’s slimy smile in the forefront of her mind. Soon she would be so frozen inside that she would be able to do anything and hurt anyone without getting hurt in return.

She would be doing Kings Landing a favour. Now that Nightingale was downed, probably for good, there was no one left to keep Hearteater in check any longer. Either Sandor would kill him for her or she would do it herself.

It turned out, however, that he had very little patience when it came to poorly-veiled repeated suggestions of murder, especially when it came to his vile employer.

“Death is not a game, you stupid girl,” he snarled, rounding on her one day at dinner. “You had plenty of opportunities to stick one of your energy blades into his neck back then. Why didn’t you, hm? You don’t want him dead. You just want the world to know his guilt. You’re just desperate now because you can’t get out there and play at being the hero.”

Sansa felt her face heat with anger, her right hand trembling so badly that she had to put her spoon down. “I’m not playing the hero,” she spat, just as vehement. “I’m helping people. And now I want him dead. I want his family to suffer as I have. You said yourself that the Lannisters will never be brought low. In that case, I’ll settle for blood instead. And you’ll be free – they’ll never know it was you.”

_What do you know of my pain_ , she thought furiously, watching the play of light on his twisting scars with something very close to derision. Despite his disfigurement, the good side of face was still perfectly expressive when he allowed it to be, and she clearly saw his contempt in the twist of his lips and the slight narrowing of his eyes.

“Do you think what you’re doing is so much better? Accepting the Lannisters’ blood money every month,” she sneered, remaining unflinching in her seat when he stood abruptly from the table, his chair flying back and toppling over from the force of his movement. “You hurt people. You threaten them and destroy their livelihoods. You would happily have killed Nightingale if you hadn’t known she was me – oh yes, I know that well enough. You really are just their dog, playing tricks on command. You have no right to judge me for wanting Hearteater dead, and no right to stop me either.”

“The little shit is _my_ charge, under _my_ protection, and he will remain so,” he growled, coming around the table in a sudden motion that knocked the entire piece of furniture half a foot to the side. Sansa jerked back and threw a shield up before her, blurring Sandor’s entire form into something seen through a fogged over window on a cold day. For a moment, he stopped as if shocked by his own strength, that he had forgotten himself no matter how momentarily, but she couldn’t see his exact expression and had little desire to.

The next thing she knew, he had turned and left, his movements stiff with barely-restrained tension. He slammed the front door behind him, and slowly Sansa allowed her shield to fade. She hadn’t really thought that he would attack her, but pure instinct had taken over in response to his sudden lunge and hostility, and that same instinct had saved her enough times in her skirmishes with Hearteater and his lackeys.

Resuming her seat, she finished her meal as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired, although she was in fact so strung out and her wrist was aching so badly that she could barely hold her spoon straight. She cleared the dishes and settled in front of her laptop for a movie, but she felt distracted and restless through most of it. It was far from the first night she had spent alone since Sandor had virtually moved in, but it felt different somehow, knowing that he wasn’t there simply because he didn’t want to be. He would have been seated out in the living room with his headphones on, or dozing on the couch, or even taking one of his notoriously quick showers had he not left.

He didn’t return that night or the next, and at some point Sansa realised that she didn’t even have his phone number. Anything she might have wanted to say to him had always been able to wait till his return – and she had never for a moment thought that one day he might not come back.

It was easy enough to slip back into her old routine of scouring the radio and the news for any sign of Hearteater’s next attack, but her small apartment had started feeling a little too large and too quiet for her liking. She ended up taking up jogging instead of continuing her usual embroidery, and not just as an excuse to get out of her house. Perhaps a little exercise was all she would need to get her arm back in working order. Her shoulder still ached almost all the time, although the wound had closed up and had started to scar, and the limited movement of her right hand was still very far from its previous utility.

Eight days after he had walked out of her house, Sansa opened the front door at the sound of a knock to find a very stern-looking Sandor on her doorstep.

“Oh,” was all she could manage at first, her eyes widening as she stepped back to take him in fully. He stepped in after her, shutting the door behind him and looming as he always did, without even having to try. His beard was a little scruffier than she was used to, but otherwise he looked much the same as before, with the dark strands of his hair very much failing to shield his scars from view. The first overwhelming emotion she felt at the sight of him was not even surprise, but relief, and she found herself smiling faintly before she managed to catch herself.

He didn’t wait for her to speak first. “If I quit, I’ll have to leave Kings Landing. Might be I’d go north. They might not be able to reach me there. The Lannisters don’t have as much power in the north.” He paused, looking strangely hesitant, and it took Sansa a moment to realise what he was asking of her.

“Are you going to kill him first?” she asked simply, and the grey of Sandor’s eyes flashed at that. He looked furious and hurt all at once, his gaze dropping from hers as he blinked.

“You just need me to kill him? That’s all?” he said flatly, the sarcasm plain on his face despite the deceptive sincerity in his voice. “You need me for a lot of things, don’t you? Just like the little bird you claim to be – no matter how much you wish it, you’ll never be a killer. Not like me.” He laughed, harsh and mocking.

Sansa flushed with embarrassment, her shoulders hunching. “No, I didn’t mean to imply – I mean, I’m not trying to use you,” she sputtered, hands fluttering anxiously. “You’ve been good to me. I wouldn’t…”

Sandor’s lip curled slightly. “Yes, you would,” he said, with a heavy sense of finality and dark amusement to his voice. “I know you don’t trust me. I know who I work for and what they did to you.”

She stiffened, taking a step back from him. “Don’t talk about that,” she said sharply. “You don’t get to talk about my family.” She felt tiny beneath his gaze, his acknowledgement of the losses she had suffered stripping her of her defenses. She wondered if the pain would ever go away, if one day she would be able to think of her parents and Robb without this furious wave of grief and anger constantly staggering her. The longer she lived with it, the less she recognized herself each day, as if it was twisting her into some cruel, single-minded creature bent on nothing but revenge.

_How does Jon do it?_ she wondered. How did he put it all aside and live without all this _mess_ inside of him?

Turning away from Sandor, she was faced with the hollow emptiness of the rest of her apartment, and for the first time she wondered how she had ever managed to stay in such a place on her own for such a long time. She thought of all the friendly messages she had received when she had dropped out of university, most of them casual well wishes and the rare few entreating her to _keep in touch!_ She hadn’t, of course, and perhaps there was some sort of taboo about making the first move to contact mourning young women who had lost half their families, but whatever the case, she hadn’t heard from any of her old classmates again.

She felt a hand come down on her shoulder, gripping lightly, and she turned her head slightly to see that Sandor had stepped closer, no doubt concerned by her sudden stillness. It wasn’t even as if he had set that bomb with his own hands. Would staying away from him bring her father and his deep-set, smiling eyes back to life? Or her mother with her effortless grace and slender fingers?

She was just so exhausted.

Twisting about, Sansa stepped closer to Sandor and pressed her face against his chest, her hands clutching at the front of his shirt. She felt him hesitate, his body rocking backwards for a moment as if he intended to step away, and then he was solid and immovable before her, his arms wrapping warmly about her shoulders. She could feel him nestling his cheek against the top of her head, the hardness of his body softening soothingly about her.

It felt right, Sansa thought, closing her eyes. After all those nights of lying still beside each other on the same bed, with a respectable space between them as if they were strangers, being enveloped in his arms like this felt utterly wonderful. She had missed this, the safety she had felt in his presence and the care he had shown her, even way back when they had been mere strangers who had met in a bar. His heart was beating deep and strong beneath her ear, if perhaps a little quicker than normal, and she smiled faintly.

With another exhalation, she pulled back to look up at Sandor’s face. It was not a handsome one – frightening even, to those who were squeamish – and seemed to be set in a constant grimace, but the sight of it had never truly repulsed her. She placed her hands on his cheeks, the skin of his left thick and dry beneath her palm, and watched him freeze at her touch like a mouse in the undergrowth. She had only to put the slightest pressure in her touch to pull him down and press her lips to his.

He let out a low grunt at the unexpected action, his hands moving from her shoulders to hold her about the waist, his touch burning into her. His lips were dry and unresponsive for a heartbeat, and then it was as if the match caught all of a sudden and he surged against her like a flame given new life, his lips parting and tongue questing into her mouth. Sansa rose up onto her tiptoes, gasping at his touch, the hardened callouses by the left side of his mouth scraping against her skin.

He kissed her long and hard, pulling her against him so that she could feel his arousal against her stomach. The jolt of desire that shot through her at that simple touch, even through their layers of clothing, made her quiver, and he seemed to sense her need for what it was. Almost man-handling her into position, Sansa let out high-pitched squeal when Sandor pushed her back over the couch. One corner of his mouth was pulled up in a clear smirk as he pulled both her shorts and underwear down her legs in one quick motion, leaving her hips raised towards him.

“Pretty,” he murmured as she spread her legs wide, looking as if he hadn’t even realised he’d spoken. He pushed two fingers into her roughly and she sighed at the unexpected intrusion, looking at him lazily through a slitted gaze. Sandor looked oddly serious, the skin at his temples pulled tight with tension as he crooked his fingers in her searchingly. Sansa twisted beneath him impatiently, wishing he’d just get on with the actual fucking and leave the games for later, but he seemed so caught up in his little search that she didn’t quite have the heart to tell him to stop.

Finally, the rough pads of his fingers rubbed past a spot that made her hiss between her teeth, already clenching around him in anticipation. “Hurry up,” she muttered, and he actually laughed, his fingers rubbing in small, quick strokes that left her keening with desperation. He was working at his pants with his free hand at the same time, and it took only a moment for him to roll a condom on and replace his fingers with his cock, dragging her further over the armrest so he could push fully into her. Sansa curled her fingers about the edge of the cushions, whining as he drove into her, wishing he was within arm’s reach so she had something to hold on to, but he was standing above her and thrusting at an angle, sending small explosions of pleasure through her with every jerk of his hips.

“My back is going hurt,” she complained between gasps, already feeling the burn in her lower back, resting on nothing but empty air. With a long exhalation somewhat reminiscent of a disgruntled bear, Sandor reached down and pulled her into his arms, seating her fully on his cock as he retreated to her bedroom. She pressed her face to his shoulder and felt the low rumble of his chuckle against her chest, refusing to loosen the clamp of her thighs on his hips even when he set her down on the bed.

He nosed against her neck as he slid languidly in and out of her, the sudden change of pace making her mewl a weak protest. He seemed curiously relaxed, as if all the tension had left his body somewhere between the couple of feet he had walked, and she could feel the dry scrape of his scars against her as he sucked on the hollow of her neck, the sensation sending goosebumps rippling down her body.

His hands were kneading at her breasts through her blouse, and eventually he reared back to let her pull it off, his cheek twitching noticeably when she tossed her bra to the side as well. Her lips quirked – _a breast man then_ , she thought just a little hysterically, as he tugged at one of the ankles she had hooked over his back. Loosening her grip, she let him push one of her knees down towards her chest, the other following suit naturally. He glanced at her face just once as if reading her expression, and then began to drive mercilessly into her, the wet sound of every thrust ringing in her ears.

Sansa knew that she was probably getting progressively louder with each passing second, a sort of breathless wail that she couldn’t stop, but the force of his pounding was less than conducive to rational thought anyway. He wasn’t even looking at her face, she dimly realised, but at her chest and the way her breasts were moving with every jolt. She probably would have been offended if it hadn’t been so amusing. His pupils were blown so wide she could barely see the ring of grey around them, and his face was taking on the preoccupied, scrunched up look of focus that told her he was getting very close to his peak.

He leaned over her once more, letting go of her thighs, and she bared her neck in readiness. At this point, she didn’t even know which one of them liked the biting more. Instead of closing his mouth over her shoulder, however, he curved his palm round the back of her neck and caught her mouth with his, his tongue pushing past her lips to meet hers. Propping herself up on her elbows to reach him better, she felt him shudder against her, the muscles of his thighs suddenly rock-hard with strain as he groaned.

Sansa relaxed back against the bed and he followed her down, engulfing her with his entire body as he continued to kiss her slowly, cock still twitching in the last throes of its release. His steely eyes seemed all of a sudden soft and dazed as he ran his hands up and down her sides, calloused but gentle, almost as if he was afraid to hold her too tightly.

“Your skin is so smooth,” he murmured against her mouth, and then his voice deepened with amusement. “Like a little bird’s feathers.” Sansa snorted at that, winding her fingers leisurely through the loose strands of his hair. With a last peck against her lips, he pulled back for a minute to knot the condom, and then he was back with his mouth trailing against her skin. He pressed a kiss to her left shoulder before moving to her right, touching the fresh pink scar with, in her opinion, a thoroughly unwarranted sort of reverence. He brushed the softest of kisses over it and then moved even further downward to flick at her nipple with his tongue, leaving her squirming at the heat of his mouth.

“Sandor…” She closed her eyes, stomach tensing as his mouth left her nipple and trailed further down, leaving a cool, damp trail across her body that she was half-tempted to wipe off.

“You didn’t come,” he said simply, and she peeked at him to find a most devilish glint in his eyes. One hand closing about her ankle to anchor himself in a rather déjà vu manner, he dove down between her legs with aggressive intent, and Sansa lost most coherent thought for a rather long while after that.

* * *

“It wasn’t Joff who was behind that attack, you know,” Sandor said quietly, laying on his side with his arm tucked beneath his head, watching her dry her hair with a towel after their rather distracting shower together. Sansa cocked her head slightly towards him, catching her bottom lip between her teeth as she considered the relative merits of starting this discussion with him all over again. She felt comfortable and content right then, and any mention of the Lannisters tended to have the opposite effect on her.

“I know,” she said at last, and it felt like a terrible sort of release to actually admit her misplaced anger out loud. “I think I always have, but he was so perfectly-placed and so easy to blame.”

Sandor snorted. “That’s probably exactly what the Lannisters wanted anyway. Joff’s too fucking stupid to do anything like that though. That boy doesn’t plan. He just does whatever the hell he wants.”

Sansa shot him a sideways frown, only slightly reproving. “So he was Tywin Lannister’s scapegoat, the heir he disinherited but officially never disowned.” She paused, mouth twisting as she flexed her right hand experimentally. “My father was far ahead in the polls and opposing all his policies, and the Lannisters have never been good at losing gracefully.” This was nothing she hadn’t worked out on her own before, but it was gratifying to have Sandor tilt his head in acknowledgement of her words. At least she wasn’t seeing conspiracies everywhere when there were none.

“I’ve been with the boy a long time. He’s a right bastard, but I’d put a lot of it down to nurture over nature. He was never a nice kid, but his mother spoiled the shit out of him and made it worse.” With a soft huff out of his nose, Sandor rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes. Sansa crawled over to him, leaning her arms on his chest and settling there, feeling one of his hands come to rest on her back, playing with her damp hair.

“How did you even end up working for them? You don’t seem like you’d put up with someone like Hearteater.” A sneer curled her lip at the mere mention of the supervillain, and Sandor’s cheek twitched as if he could see it even though his eyes remained closed.

“I started off working at the Baratheon warehouses. Happened to be there one night when some idiots tried to rob the place, and of course I chased those damn pansies off. They just had to pick the one night someone like me was on shift, didn’t they?” He snorted. “Robert Baratheon took notice and made me Joff’s bodyguard, and later Tywin Lannister bought me over. Ordered me to keep protecting the kid even after he supposedly turned rogue.”

“I hate them.” Laying her head down on her arms, Sansa closed her eyes. “You’ll stop working for them, won’t you?” She detested how juvenile she sounded, but she was terribly afraid of losing him in some way and ending up alone in the lion’s den again.

She felt him shrug beneath her. “And do what? Like I said, I can’t stay here,” he rasped, sounding the faintest bit impatient. “Even if I’m allowed to leave, Tywin will want me as far away from his family as possible. That’s why I was thinking of going north. Figured you could come with me if you wanted. Don’t want to be here when everything goes up in flames.”

Sansa was silent. It was inconceivable, giving up and heading back up north with nothing to show for her pathetic efforts. In the end, she had done nothing to hinder the Lannisters in any way. At best, she had been a mild annoyance to Hearteater, who had never been the brains of any Lannister operation anyway. And yet – what else could she do?

“I just don’t want to take the easy way out,” she said quietly, her chest aching with the war raging within her. Now that Sandor had said it, she couldn’t help imagining being home again, with snow on the ground and the icy wind whipping at her braids. She wanted Jon to wrap her up in a tight hug, all the while smiling that reluctant smile of his that looked like a hundred horses had pulled it forcibly out of him. She wanted to see Arya and Bran and little Rickon again, who was of course no longer so very little anymore.

_Father would have wanted us all to stay together._ The thought came unbidden to her, and she could feel her resolve crumbling little by little.

“It’s called a tactical retreat,” Sandor said gruffly. “You don’t have to give everything up. Just find someplace safe to regroup and make new plans. Get that cousin of yours to help or something. Nightingale will still be a part of you.”

“That’s…” Sansa paused, blinking oddly at Sandor for a moment before the corner of her lips curved upwards. “That sounded strangely romantic, actually.” She giggled, enjoying the way he immediately made some unidentifiable noise of embarrassment in his chest and looked away, his mouth twisting with discomfort.

“I’m just being practical,” he grunted, and Sansa smiled faintly.

“Let me think about it,” she said gently, and they didn’t speak of that matter again that day.

Sandor left again the next day after a call from one Meryn Trant – “The Gallows,” he informed her with a disgruntled roll of his eyes – and didn’t return until the day after. It was quite a spectacular entrance, involving him ripping her door clean off its hinges and charging into her flat like an angered bull. Jumping so hard she almost toppled the couch over, Sansa threw up a gleaming wall of energy stretching from floor to ceiling before she even recognised him.

“We have to go,” he snarled, completely ignoring the shield barring him from her. “I told Joff I was resigning and he said fine, and then his fucking mother ordered a fucking hit on me. On _me_. That bitch.” He looked wild-eyed with fury and about two seconds away from going on a rampage, looking all about her apartment as if expecting to be set on by thugs at any moment.

Dropping her shield, Sansa stared at the gaping hole where her front door had been less than a minute ago, and then at him in distinct disbelief. “What?” she sputtered, but the next moment she was scrambling to her feet and calling over her shoulder as his words sunk in, “Did you come straight here? Don’t you need anything from your place?”

Throwing open her wardrobe, she reached for the empty suitcase on the top shelf, thankful that she wasn’t overly attached to very much in her apartment.

“I wasn’t thinking.” Sandor came up behind her, only the audible tremor in his voice betraying how shaken he was. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’ll have led them straight to you.”

“Shut up and help me pack,” she snapped before he could start fretting guiltily. “It’s too late, you’ve basically ripped my whole damn front door off already. Get some food from the kitchen. We’ll take a cab to the airport and rent a car from there. With any luck, they’ll think you’ve boarded a plane to Tyrosh or Pentos, and they won’t look north so soon.” She hadn’t given their leaving much thought before now, much less one as hasty as this one, but it felt as if the plan had sprung fully-formed from her mind, much like Athena had with Zeus.

Bundling her toiletries and her chargers into her suitcase along with her clothes, Sansa began to reach for the few mementoes she had about her house. The framed photographs went in, along with a very aged, ragged doll her father had given her years back, and the little grey wolf figurine from Robb. A sharp stab of pain shot through her right wrist as she pressed her suitcase shut and she gasped, bending almost double for a moment before she managed to snap the locks with her left hand.

That was another thing she could do once she was home, she thought – get her hand seen to by the first doctor she could find.

Once Sandor was ready, the backpack she had given to him suspiciously full of what looked like more than just food, Sansa led the way downstairs. “Remind me to put this place on the market once we’re back in Winterfell,” she said dryly, holding a hand out to stop him from going any further. “Stay in the lobby until I’ve gotten a cab. I’m not the one being hunted here.”

He grabbed her shoulder, whirling her back around to face him before she could leave. “If anything happens, if they start shooting, you fly, you understand? Get the hell out and fly home,” he growled, his eyes flashing as he looked searchingly at her.

Sansa gave him a small smile. “We’ll be fine,” she promised. They had to be, because she certainly wasn’t flying off and leaving him to fend for himself at any point. Lifting his hand off her shoulder, she gave the backs of his fingers a light kiss before running out to the sidewalk, already scanning the streets for an empty cab. Her blood was up and rushing through her veins, her senses sharpened and primed for survival, and she found that she had rather missed this feeling.

They were halfway to the airport when the shooting started.

The first shot shattered the windshield and sent their car careening to the right, bumping into a neighbouring vehicle with a deafening, drawn-out screech before their driver managed to wrestle the car back under control.

“Keep driving!” Sansa screamed, clutching on to Sandor’s arm for dear life. She had layered most of the vehicle with a layer of crackling energy, but she had very little confidence that it would hold up under a barrage of bullets. Hearteater never used guns, so she had never had a chance to test her powers against them. Besides, she had a bad feeling that her shields would not hold up against the concentrated impact of a speeding bullet. Sandor was tense beside her, his muscles flexing ineffectually as he tried to peer out the window to catch a glimpse of their assailants.

Another shot scraped past her shield and a third cracked it, but that was all. Sansa met the driver’s traumatised stare in the mirror and gave him a supremely awkward smile.

Sandor leaned over and placed his mouth by her ear. “They know we’re headed to the airport. They’ll try to ambush us there.”

Lips thinning, Sansa nodded, every part of her keyed up with adrenaline. Wordlessly, she squeezed his arm where she was still holding on like a terrified baby monkey.

They got off right in front of the car rental booths, their cab driving off in a hurry with a belch of smoke the moment Sandor shut the door. Letting out a long breath, Sansa strode up to one of the booths, leaving Sandor to wait on a nearby bench with their bags, his head lowered as he did his best to be as inconspicuous as a very large, very scarred man could be. She kept an eye on him as she queued, nervously working out distances and timings to keep herself occupied.

It would be a thirty-hour journey from Kings Landing to Winterfell – three days of driving if they stopped for nothing but sleep. Home had never seemed so far away.

The first three hours were tense in a way that Sansa had never experienced before. Sandor’s hands were relaxed on the wheel, but there was a noticeable tightness about his jaw and eyes that she didn’t dare to mention. Better that he stayed alert in case the Lannisters caught wind of where they were going and surprised them on the road. By the time she took over the driving two hours later so Sandor could take a break and eat, the strained atmosphere had faded ever so slightly, and she felt safe enough to switch the radio on in case there was any notable news.

Ignoring Sandor’s protests, she stopped at the first decent-looking motel she saw just past midnight. Once again, she made sure to keep him out of sight while she got them a room. There might not be many redheads passing by, but she was willing to bet that there were even fewer men well over six feet tall and with half his face burned to boot.

“I still can’t believe you ripped my whole door out of its frame,” she said a little later, watching Sandor approach the bed clad only in a pair of plain black boxers.. After all, there was nothing she had packed that would fit him, and he had decided that he would certainly prefer not wear his single set of clothes both in the car and in bed, a decision with which Sansa whole-heartedly agreed with. There was something unaccountably erotic about seeing the outline of his cock through his boxers. It was, she decided, very much the equivalent of cleavage to him.

“I didn’t think there was time to fucking knock,” he grumbled, hitting the pillow beside her with a deep, tired sigh. She bounced slightly from the force of his fall and giggled, immediately rolling over to face him. The simple act of leaving Kings Landing seemed to have lifted the weight of the world off her shoulders, or perhaps it was the knowledge that she was actually on the way home. Either way, the Lannisters were the last thing on her mind right then as she inched her fingers down to skim lightly along his bulge.

“Sansa,” he groaned. “Go to sleep, woman. We’re going to be on the road all day tomorrow.”

“We won’t take long, I promise,” she whispered, leaning so close that he shivered at the warmth of her breath against the shell of his ear.

“You’ll regret it when the Lannisters come bursting in to find me balls-deep inside you,” he warned, but he made no move to stop her roving hands, and she could already feel him stirring with definite interest.

Smiling serenely, she nudged at him to lift his hips so that she could remove the small piece of black fabric hiding him from view. “Don’t worry, I won’t let that happen,” she promised, hoping she sounded as sultry as she was trying to be. His cock was half-erect and hardening swiftly before her very eyes, like some sort of demented, sped-up version of a plant life cycle. She took hold of him, stiff and straining beneath the softness of his hot, velvety foreskin, and lowered her mouth to the thick, leaking head.

Blowjobs had never been Sansa’s favourite pastime – few men had ever bothered to try to make it less unpleasant for her, nor had she wanted them to. It had always been about the heat of the moment, the thrill of their cruel hands in her hair and the guilt in her that had, for just a few more minutes, been assuaged. Hearing the garbled syllables that came from Sandor’s mouth as she sucked wetly at the tip of his cock, however, was inordinately satisfying, and she lowered her head to take him just a little further into her mouth, lips stretching around his girth.

Lifting her eyes without pausing the slow, relaxed rhythm she had settled into, she had to hold back a smile at the sight of him with his head thrown back and eyes closed, veins pulsing in his arms with the effort of holding himself back. He really did have a magnificent body. The thought rushed through her with a surge of animalistic possessiveness and she ran her palm across his stomach, watching his muscles contract at her touch.

Sucking in a breath through her nose, she took as much of him as she could into her mouth, until both her mouth and her eyes were watering in equal measure, before releasing him entirely. “Don’t open your eyes,” she warned with a hint of sharp amusement to her tone, “or you’ll get nothing.” Wiping at her mouth, she slid off the bed and began to rummage through his clothes, pleased to find that Sandor was never anything but prepared. It was highly likely that even when the world ended he’d still have condoms in his pockets.

He perked up visibly at the familiar sound, his head turning slightly to face her even though his eyes were still closed. “Sansa?” he said hoarsely, tense with anticipation as she began to roll the rubber down his length. She thought about drawing it out and teasing him further, but she herself was so wet and aching that she found she no longer had the patience to take things slow. She leaned forward to kiss him for just a moment before shifting back and guiding him into her, a low noise of fulfillment sounding in her throat as he stretched her wide open.

Grinding her pelvis against his in lazy circular motions, she slapped at his hip playfully and his eyes snapped open, dark and feral. _Fuck me_ , she mouthed at him with a wicked tilt of her mouth. Reaching out, he grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her forward, a squeal leaving her lips as she fell against him. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder as he moved his grip to her hips instead, holding her steady as he began to thrust rapidly into her from below.

Sansa closed her eyes, panting against Sandor’s hot skin as he grunted, more from pleasure than from any true effort. The steady speed of his hips was strangely lulling, his strength unyielding as he held her firmly against him, her rock and anchor as the waves of her peak began to crash upon her. Keening, her nails scored lines of red down his arms and back as her vision flashed white for a moment, until finally she shuddered and curled against him, breathless and sated. One of his hands moved to rest on her lower back, his hand spanning near her entire waist, even as he pounded erratically into her, desperate for his own release.

“Imagine if the Lannisters walked in now,” Sansa said just a little later, barely holding back a chuckle from where she lay with her face pressed against Sandor’s rather hairy, sweaty chest.

He shifted, and she could already feel the half-hearted annoyance radiating off him. “Why would you say that?” he grumbled in disgust, with the faintest hint of a whine to his voice.

She shrugged, quite pleased with herself as she replied with a definite hint of triumph, “You were the one who mentioned it earlier, not me.”

He sighed, resigned, and resumed his motionless almost-doze with her still splayed cat-like atop him, their sweat and other bodily fluids drying on their skin until Sansa could take it no longer and clambered off him for a shower. “Come on, we have to _sleep_ here later,” she ordered, pulling at his arm until he groaned in defiance. Rolling ungracefully off the bed, he trudged after her with the utmost reluctance, although that hardly stopped his hands from beginning to wander over her bare skin extremely inappropriately as they entered the tiny shower area.

In spite of the physical activity they had partaken of, Sansa didn’t sleep well that night. She was filled with a multitude of conflicting emotions, pulling her first one way and then the other – joy, grief, guilt, excitement. She wondered what her mother would say to her oldest daughter now, fleeing from their enemies with her tail between her legs and an ex-villain for company. In the end, she found that she could hardly even imagine Sandor in the same vicinity as polished, elegant Catelyn Stark, who could cow an entire boardroom of middle-aged men with a single look. Perhaps she would look down her nose at this rough, unattractive man, or perhaps she would want nothing for Sansa but happiness. She found it disturbing that she could not decide which was more likely.

Each time she awoke in the night, blinking and disoriented in the darkness, it was Sandor’s soft snuffling snores that returned her to the present. She wondered what the Lannisters were up to right then, and if they had discovered her abandoned apartment. Her Nightingale costume was in her suitcase, but she supposed it wouldn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Sandor had done it easily enough after all.

They set off north again after breakfast the next morning, Sansa lolling and lethargic in the passenger seat as the radio chattered on gaily in the background. Sandor was silent with a sort of deadly calm, only the occasional flick of his gaze over to her betraying his concern.

Finally, popping the bubble of tension filling the car, he asked, “Everything okay?”

Sansa felt momentarily scattered, as if he had woken her abruptly from a dream. “Just thinking,” she murmured, and almost a full minute of silence passed before she continued with a decidedly harder cadence to her tone. “Sometimes I think it should have been me, you know. Robb was so…good. He was so smart, and so much fun – the kind of perfect big brother you only see in movies. He’s the one who should have lived, but every time I think that, I remember that _I_ want to live too. I know I shouldn’t, but I feel so selfish for being here and still existing. Maybe if I’d been hurt or crippled or _something_ –”

She felt Sandor reach over to pry at her clenched fist, gently stroking her nail-marked palms with his fingers. “You can’t change the past, Sansa,” he said, his gruff voice a low, scraping sigh. “You just have to learn to live with it.” Her palm stung where his skin pressed against hers, the faint frisson of pain bringing tears to her eyes. With a soft exhalation, he leaned over, lips landing just on the corner of her mouth and destroying the saltwater trail down her cheek.

Near noon, her phone began to chime, the persistent buzzing of an incoming video call from one ‘Jon Snow’. Sansa almost dropped it twice before managing to answer it, although she had no idea why she should be afraid to receive a call from Jon, of all people.

“Hey, I just wanted to check in,” was his solemn greeting, with the faintest hint of a warm smile in his eyes. “We haven’t heard from you in a while. Is everything okay?”

Sansa’s throat suddenly felt unaccountably thick once more, and again she saw Sandor glance over at her out of the corner of his eye. “Jon,” she said, slightly choked as she felt Sandor reach out to engulf her hand in his comfortingly. “I have so much to tell you.” She took in the familiarity of his beloved Stark features, pixelated on the tiny screen in her hand, and decided right there and then that she was doing the right thing. How could returning to her family ever be the wrong choice?

She squeezed Sandor’s hand and felt him squeeze back.

“I’m coming home,” she whispered, and that was good enough for a start.


End file.
